


Broken Promises

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dom!Sherlock, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sub!John, Suicidal Thoughts, broken trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers that John has quietly binned his collar from their relationship before. Much angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Promises

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to my beta, mistresskikimistresskikisshiphassailed, who always makes my writing better.

 

Sherlock fished the collar out of the rubbish bin. It was buried underneath newspapers and the remnants of last night’s take away. He shouldn’t have seen it. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t thought John had binned a crucial component of his latest experiment (he hadn’t). He just stared at it for a minute, trying to understand, before his eyes pricked with tears and his jaw clenched reflexively, trying to control it.  But after a moment, he gave in.  While John was at the surgery and there was no one to see, Sherlock let himself cry.

 

When John got home that night, weighed down with sacks from Tesco, it was in the center of the table. Clean and polished, though doing so was usually his job. Despite his anger, it took some control not to pick it up and crawl to Sherlock’s chair, where he sat now, fingers steepled, eyes open, but that faraway look that meant he was not here, not quite seeing.  John shook his head, as if to clear the conditioned response. While he put away the groceries, he contemplated just turning around and walking out.  He couldn’t do this. Every time he looked at it, he just… couldn’t.  He never knew what would win out in the overwhelming cocktail made of sadness, anger, grief, guilt, loss that now overlaid the heady mix of sex, trust, and love that it used to represent.  When the last bag was empty, he grabbed his coat. He needed air. 

Before he made it out the door, Sherlock was there, beside him.

“John?” Sherlock’s tone was mild, it wasn’t a sharp order to explain, which likely would have sent John running right out the door anyway.  There was nothing particularly pleading in the tone, either. It took John a moment to place it, as he had so seldom heard fear in Sherlock’s voice.  When John looked into his eyes, there was something utterly broken there, begging for explanation.

John sighed, re-hung his coat and stepped back to the kitchen. As he sank into a chair, Sherlock sat too, opposite him. There it sat between them, an object to represent all they had been avoiding. Supple brown leather with sturdy brass findings. There were no tags to declare, Property of Sherlock Holmes.  It isn’t as though anyone else was likely to see it and they knew well enough that is what it meant.

John took a deep breath. He wasn’t ready for this, but he never would be. “Sherlock. It was part of you. Part of us. I couldn’t get rid of it then, even if I couldn’t bear to have it on. But now that you are back, I can’t look at it. I keep moving it to a place I think will be out of the way, out of my sight.  For a few days, I can ignore it and appreciate that you are here and we have a chance no one gets. Then I see it and it all comes back.  I can’t live like this!”

“I thought,” Sherlock began, “you’d tell me when you were ready.  I never thought that this,” he gestured vaguely to the collar “was over. Were you going to tell me?  Or just bin it and be done?”

John eyed him uncertainly.  This wasn’t how he had wanted this to happen.  He didn’t exactly have a plan, but whatever it might have been, it wasn’t this. “Before you left, I thought it was helpful.  I know our play was diverting when you were in a black mood, I had routines that took care of you, helped you remember to eat and occasionally sleep. I felt useful and, God knows, I needed it too. There was something transformative in the pain, something perfectly calming about giving over everything. As a medic, a soldier, a doctor, I have spent too long with other people’s life and death in my hands and it was blissful to give it all over. We rarely talked about it, but you knew.“

Sherlock bit back the _Obviously_ that would have been his natural inclination, for once caring that it would do more harm than good, settling for a simple “Yes,” instead.

“When you were,” John paused, unwilling to say dead, since he bloody well hadn’t been.  “When you were _gone_ , Sherlock, all I could think about was having you back.  How I missed you.  How I needed you.  But after that, I couldn’t help but ask, how had I burdened you with taking care of me when you couldn’t take care of yourself? How I must have utterly failed you.  Because I didn’t see this coming. And how I entrusted myself to a man so reckless, so unstable. How could I forgive you?  Forgive myself?  How could I trust myself or anyone else again? All that is tied up in this piece of leather, Sherlock and I can’t…”

As John trailed off, Sherlock blanched. He reached out, brushing the tips of their fingers together, but John pulled back, as though they were electrified.

“Sherlock, don’t.” There was warning in his tone, a bit more Captain Watson than Sherlock usually saw inside the house. Sherlock pulled back, curling into himself. John’s voice softened as he began again, “I have been avoiding this.  I heard your story, but I haven’t let you hear mine. You want to know and you could deduce some of it, but so much is sentiment, I know you’d get lost in it and something would be wrong.” Sherlock huffed in a way that might have been contempt, but his gaze was resigned as John whispered, “ and I need you to hear this.”

“When I had a mix up with prescriptions at the surgery, Sarah sorted it for me and didn’t write it up, but she put me on leave. She told me that I was a brilliant doctor and that she would be happy to have me back when I was ready, but that I shouldn’t come back until I was sure.  For days, I sat at the foot of your chair like I did when work had been especially bad, when I had a row with the nurses or those rare occasions we lost a patient. But you weren’t here to collar me and comfort me and no matter what I did, I couldn’t feel the light weight of your hand stroking my hair.  Apparently, my sense memory is good enough to recall in exacting detail what it feels like to have a bullet rip through my shoulder.  It can bring back the perfect blend of rough and silky that was texture of the carpet in the little Bed and Breakfast in Brighton, the way it felt rubbing against my cheek as you entered me for the first time. But not anything so sweet and simple as you petting my hair or kissing me goodnight.”  John looked absolutely wrecked, eyes red, cheeks blotchy. The tears that had been threatening to fall spilled over, streaking his face.

“I didn’t have you. I had no orders to follow and in the grief, no will of my own. I didn’t eat.  I didn’t sleep. I contemplated drugs that would get my license revoked if I were found out, but ultimately didn’t give in to that vice. If I couldn’t stand it when you did it, how could I do that to myself? So like you, I had my danger nights, but once I dismissed the initial temptation to drown myself in chemicals, my danger nights had more to do with struggling not to eat my gun.”

Sherlock drew in his breath sharply and actually had the decency to look horrified.  He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.  His brain felt like static. He could only mouth the word, _NO._

“Well, clearly I didn’t,” John spat, with more venom than he actually intended. John rose and began banging things about.  Putting the kettle on, getting out mugs and tea.  Anything to keep his hands busy.  He wanted to punch Sherlock nearly as much as he wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let go.  He wanted to kiss him until they were breathless, but equally, he wanted to throttle him.  Since no option seemed reasonable, he rejected them all and simply made tea while he continued, “For weeks, I just soaked in the pain, until I was saturated with it. When I couldn't absorb it any more, I let the rage swallow me whole. I’d go out and get pissed at some pub or other.  I sought out fights I couldn’t win then let myself get beaten within an inch of my life.  Then I drank myself stupid for awhile. After a few months, I crawled out of the bottle, because drunk or sober, I was still numb. I couldn’t feel anything at all anymore. When I emerged from all that, I was just finally able to go through the motions again. I called Sarah and went back to work.  I looked like I was coping and maybe I finally was.  But then you came back. I understand your explanations. You did what you thought was right.  You needed to protect us.  And I have what no one gets!  My love came back from the dead.  The miracle I asked for.  So why does it feel like such shite?”

So low, John almost didn’t hear him, Sherlock began, “I break things. Everything. I never deserved you, but I tried to protect you. I thought, if I made it back, I could fix it. Like your leg.  Stupid. I was saving your body that I had sworn to protect, but I sacrificed your heart. I broke your trust and the promises we made to one another.” He paused, looking up at John. 

It was startling to see an expression John never dared hope to for.  Remorse.

“How can I earn it back?”

John looked at him steadily. “You earn trust the same way it was established, one day at a time. There is no easy fix for this.  I love you and we’re trying.  For now, that is enough. It has to be enough.”


End file.
